Exit Wounds
by ashatanii
Summary: Sometimes it's not the action that brings the heavy price tag but the exit wounds. A glimpse into the 24 hours following the shooting at the bank and the heavy cost to both Christie and Jim.


Exit Wounds.

The phone rang on Christie's desk. Without taking her eyes from the magnifier, she reached for it and brought it to her ear, these proofs had to be checked and orders out of here in five minutes. "Christie Dunbar."

"Mrs. Dunbar," Janice's smooth reception vice indicated she had someone in front of her. "There are two men here to see you," Christie put the lens down and sighed, she did not need another disruption. She almost missed Janice's last words "…police officers?'

Forgotten, the lens rolled over the proofs. Her voice came from somewhere, "I'll be right out."

Christie bumped the desk in her hurry to get out of her office. A vase fell, unnoticed, behind her. She stopped in the hallway, well short of reception, part of her wondering if she could just turn the other way and run.

Janice stood speaking to the two officers. Her face was white, her mouth was moving, but Christie could hear nothing through the rush of her blood in her ears. Dark blue uniforms, shining silver buttons, sharp contrast to the blood red feature wall behind them. She took a step. They turned together, like marionettes controlled by the same hand. She took in the regret in their eyes and came to a halt, too far away for polite conversation.

The shorter of the men took a few steps and reached out. He touched her arm. "Mrs. Dunbar, you should come with us, Detective Dunbar is in hospital."

She looked at his hand on her arm, freckles were showing, she'd gotten lots of sun this year, and then her eyes traveled up his arm to his collar, shiny silver numbers stood out, the same number as Jim's precinct. "No, I'm not sure I can come now…" She found her self saying, turning as if to go back to her office.

The men looked at each other, the taller one was young, a rookie and clearly had no idea why a cop's wife might not want to go rushing off to see her husband in hospital.

She blinked. "What happened?" She asked. She felt like an innocent, resisting the sully of soiled information. Inside some part of her squirmed, trying to get its message to her brain. She shook her head. Jimmy was hurt; she needed to go.

Christie Dunbar walked with the policemen, out of the building down to their car. The younger man drove, the older still held her arm as they sat in the back of the car. The sirens screamed as they rushed to a future she had no desire to enter. The older man told her of the bank robbery, the shootout, and then, in hushed tones, Jim's bravery that finally stopped the gunman who had already killed and clearly intended to keep on adding to his lists of casualties. The siren announced that Jim was not stable, the cops rushed her to the hospital as if _she_ was in need of immediate medical care, as if _she_ might not make it. Jim might not make it, she corrected silently in her mind, _she _was alright, just traveling very fast in a direction she had no wish to go.

All too soon, before she could gather her wits, she was walking down the hospital corridor with the two uniforms beside her, ensuring she did not stray. She wondered if convicts felt like this while they were being walked places. Dead man walking, she heard the phrase in her mind, but no, Jimmy wasn't dead.

A man in pale green scrubs came to brief her. The color didn't suit him, he looked pale, like he should be a patient, not a doctor. He was talking; she tried to concentrate on the words. Shot; in the head. Exit wound. Trauma to the cranium, chasing bullet fragments, stopping bleeding, vitals strong, heart strong-

The flow of meaningless words snagged, right about there, on the sharp protrudance of a strong heart. She almost corrected the doctor. She had uncovered Jim's betrayal so recently; they hadn't even had _the conversation_ yet.

So, how could this man know if Jimmy Dunbar was strong of heart when she herself, keeper of his heart for some five years or more, was unsure of what it was exactly he had placed in her care? She found herself looking at her hands, expecting somehow to see his heart pounding away in it, to see if it was strong or sagging black with rot. Instead, she saw herself turning her wedding ring around, as if she were about to take it off.

Seven am this morning; Jimmy had rushed in, supposedly from a night tour, saying something about pulling a double shift. He rushed into the shower and then threw on a clean set of clothes. She didn't want to ask him, to hear him say it was true or worse, lie and convince her it wasn't. So she took his discarded shirt from the hamper and held it to her nose. A sweet perfume, floral. Her mind was blank as she pushed the shirt back in under the swinging lid. She wandered back out to the kitchen.

He'd come out, dressed in muted browns, his hair still standing up from the shower, looking virile and alive, smiling charmingly and chattering about some case or another. She stood, watching, wondering how he could act so ... normal.

And all it had taken was one glance. He'd always been able to read her with a single look. And it was in her eyes for him to read. _I know_, her green eyes had said as loudly as if she had shouted. He stopped for a moment, blinked, and turned away guiltily. And no words had passed their lips as he clipped on his gun, and his badge, and hurried out the door, wounding her with his silent exit.

"When will he come home?" she asked

The doctor stopped; was she listening? He looked closely at the wife, her pupils were wide, there was a sheen across her brow; she was in shock. "Come, sit down, Mrs. Dunbar. Your husband is still in surgery."

He watched her carefully for signs of comprehension. She frowned, licked her lips, and opened her mouth as if she were about to ask a question. But no words came.

Christie looked at the doctor quizzically, what was he talking about, it was only an affair; surely, they could overcome that? She nodded. The doctor took that as sufficient and patted her arm. "I'll let you know as soon as I do."

The doctor left her waiting in a hard chair by the door. The two officers had wandered off, she felt very alone as she sat and wrung her hands. Jimmy's face, as he clipped his gun to his belt, floated in front of her. She didn't know what she was supposed to feel. A hand on hers, she looked up into Terry's face. Of course, Jim's partner would be here. And then there was his wife, handing her a cup. Sweet, hot tea almost burnt her mouth, but she drank it gratefully, it warmed a small part of the ice in her stomach.

As the sweet tea worked its magic, Christie realized she was surrounded by people, cops, nurses, even the Lieutenant, Jim's boss, was there. She huddled in her chair, not wanting to see these people.

Hours later, Terry and his wife sat with her and explained. Jim was out of danger. The doctors said it looked good. His vitals were strong, but they didn't know what effect the bullet had, they wouldn't know until he woke up and could tell them. Terry and his wife looked at each other as if there were news they weren't sharing but Christie just thanked them. She could handle it from here, she'd like to be alone, she was fine, she'd call if she needed them. "I'm sorry, Christie, I'm so sorry," Terry said, patting Christie's hand again as he left.

A woman in uniform, who had been here with the crowd, hung back and followed Terry as he left. Was that her, Ann Donnelly? Really, it didn't matter. Might not ever matter if Jim didn't make it. If he did, they'd wait until he was alright and then discus it like adults. She forced herself not to wonder if Jim had intended to leave her for this woman. With characteristic strength, Christie pushed the thought away and walked to the nurse's station. She would go sit with Jimmy now. It was the right thing to do.

Sour. Bitter. Jim's tongue moved, feebly resisting the tastes and meeting the resistance of a tube in his mouth. His stomach heaved and his body convulsed, bringing up bile from his stomach. Sucking noises and the pull of a vacuum on his tongue, a foreign form in his mouth, soft between his teeth, he clamped down hard.

"No, Mr. Dunbar, no. That's your vacuum tube. You're going to need that a little longer." The words reached him more slowly than the tone, which was kindly but firm, a woman used to getting her own way. He tried to yank the offending tube from his mouth but – his eyes flew open in panic- his arm, he couldn't feel his arm, he went to dig his fingers into his palms, but nothing, he tried to move his legs to kick, to bend, but there was no sensation to tell him if he succeeded. The moment of the bullet flew back to him, bringing a wall of panic. His eyes opened as wide as they could go, from his neck down he could feel nothing, his breath stopped in his chest and his mouth moved "No…no!"

Again the soothing voice, firm enough that he listened, "Relax, Mr. Dunbar, relax, please, or I have to give you more sedative. You've been given a spinal aneasthetic, to prevent you from moving, your head is in a brace, please don't move your head."

"Wha...?" Jim managed through the dry mouth, past the tube secured to his cheek and occupying most of his mouth. It was fairly dark. All he could see was patches of white, the edge of a green exit sign, the glow of a light that flashed intermittently, in time with the beep, beep, beep of some medical monitor. In obedience to the voice, he did not try to turn his head to see more, for now, while he sought answers. "My legs, my arms, I can't…"

"You're in intensive care. I'm your nurse. Let me get the doctor and he'll explain."

Footsteps on the floor, then the doctor stood over him. Jim could make out his shape above him but not much more, a white coat, a blue name tag but too blurred to read. When he tried, Jim felt the nausea return and the cold, impersonal vacuum in his mouth, triggered. He found it hard to keep his eyes open. The images in front of him blurred and moved and the stead pulsing of light was hypnotic.

By sheer force, he held his eyes open, needing to see the doctor while he explained. But the doctor hadn't explained anything much and Jim had found even the white coat slipping away. The doctor asked lots of questions. Did Jim remember being shot? What was his name? How old was he? Could he hear the doctor? Could he see the light being shone in his eyes? Finally, apparently satisfied, the doctor told him the spinal that was keeping his body immobilized from the neck down would wear off in ten to fifteen minutes; that he must make every effort to remain still to lessen the chance of further damage.

"What damage?" Jim tried to ask.

"It is too early to assess but the movement of your brain inside the skull, both from the impact of the bullet entering your cranium and from your fall to the concrete curb, is traumatic in itself. You'll probably have blurred vision and some nausea from that alone. Add to that the fragments of bullet and bone we have had to remove, and there is potential for serious trauma. The extent of the damage is unknown. The brain has an amazing ability to recover in the short term and also to reassign function in the long term. I cannot assess your brain damage at this point."

"I have brain damage?" Jim mangled the words around the tubes in his mouth. Images of men bent over, saliva dripping unimpeded from their mouths, lined up in his head for viewing. He shoved them aside. No way, he'd rather be dead.

"Please don't worry at this point, Detective. As I said, swelling from the trauma must go before we have any idea what has been damaged, if anything. The fact that you understand what I am saying is a very good indicator. But you need to remain as still as possible to minimize the damage."

Jim resisted nodding his head to show he understood. He could remain still; if that's what it took, he would do it. His mind seemed to be working fine, a little blurring of his vision, but the doctor said that would clear up.

"Annie will stay with you."

Jim blinked in confusion, Annie was here? His heart raced for a moment, oh, yes, he would give almost anything to see Annie right now.

The doctor continued, not noticing Jim's sudden blush, patting his arm as he left. "Are you ready to see your wife?"

Alarm bells rang in Jim's head.

"Hi, Mr. Dunbar. I'm over here. I'm your nurse, Annie." A cool hand touched his shoulder. "I will stay by your side until the spinal wears off so make a noise if you want me, okay?"

"Okay." Jim managed, feeling foolish at the emotions he had felt when he thought that Annie, his Annie, well not his Annie any more, was here. He had to remember she had left, ended their relationship. And the fear that they would meet, Annie and Christie.

He heard footsteps; Christie in stilettos, and the nurse explaining to her; "We have him immobilized, but that should wear off in about ten minutes so you can hold his hand if you want, he might be able to feel it now. And if you want him to see you, you need to stand here."

A blur moved in front of Jim's eyes and he blinked several times, trying to get a clear picture, but although the focus was sharp where her dark hair cut across the exit sign, he couldn't see enough to make out her expression. He tried to smile.

She leaned over the metal cage they had placed over his head, the doctor had told her it was to keep his head still while the injury healed. A massive tube snaked into his mouth, distorting his lips and making it look like he was sneering at her. She sought eye contact but his eyes seemed to float a little, and then focus on her hair. She raised her hand unconsciously, as if to pat down a stray lock. "Hi, Sweetie."

"Christie." It came out nothing like her name. "I'm okay," he said wishing he could at least squeeze her hand. He wondered if she was holding it and experimented, squeezing. The drug must be almost gone, he felt his fingers flex, albeit a little sluggishly, but it was empty. "Hold my hand?" he asked.

"Sure." She disappeared from view and he felt her cool hand in his.

He squeezed. "I'm okay," he repeated.

She sobbed quietly.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling his throat tighten with grief. His words came out slurred and twisted, he tried again, enunciating as clearly as he could around the tube and the tears. "I'm so sorry."

"About getting shot or…" Christie couldn't finish the thought.

"For hurting you." He swallowed painfully. "Please, forgive me."

"Just make it through this, Jimmy, just make it through this and we'll see." She wasn't about to lie to him, to feed him platitudes when the doctors said he was still in danger. She wouldn't let her last words to him be a lie.

"Don't worry, I'll make it. I promise." He felt her hair and her tears as she laid her head on his hand and sobbed. He ran his thumb over her soft skin, hoping to reassure her. The lights on the ceiling hurt his eyes; instead he focused on the green exit sign over to his left. Somehow, in all the confusion, it seemed stable and cheerful and a promise that there was a world outside of the hospital. As his eyelids grew heavy he made a promise to himself that, he'd be following the exit signs out of here, on his own two feet.

He must have begun to doze, but was jerked awake when some medical monitor began to ring ominously. Her hand was snatched away, and he snapped open his eyes, wincing as some unidentified light hit him sharply. Like a man reacting to fire pushed into his face, he tried to jerk backward to avoid the intense white light but the steel frame did its job and his head remained perfectly still. Jim groaned as the light burned through his tightly closed eyelids, threatening to send him into unconsciousness. "Hold still Mr. Dunbar. Please, don't move." Just as abruptly as it came, the pain of the light was gone. Jim opened his eyes tentatively, squinted, but the sharp light had gone, it was murky above him again. He blinked and looked for the familiar green exit sign, it seemed to swim away as he tried to focus on it and a familiar wave of nausea rose, his stomach heaved and the vacuum hissed loudly. Jim felt the world sliding away. He dug his nails into his palm, trying vainly to stay with it.

"Cascading hemorrhage…" he heard as his eyes closed of their own volition and his hand relaxed.

Christie watched wide eyed, from several feet away as doctors rushed around her husband, speaking in terms whose meanings she could only guess at and looking too close to panic for her comfort. Two doctors argued; she had no idea what about. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the words, understand the meaning.

"These new scans show very severe hemorrhaging back here, if we don't turn him, he could lose his sight permanently."

"Or we turn him and spread the problem over the rest of the brain; he could end up a vegetable."

Christie fainted.

She sat and held his hand, the Tylenol the doctor had given her took away the worst of the headache but she found the bright lights tiring. She wished he would wake up. If he did, even for a moment, she thought, she could go get some of that rest the doctors were pushing on her.

A slow squeeze told her he was back. "Jimmy?"

"Mmm. Musta fallen asleep." He moved his arms, his legs. "Good, got my body back at least." He yawned, "I feel better."

Christie stood so he could see her face. She leaned over with a small smile, hoping he wouldn't see the bruise on her head, the dark patches under her eyes. But his gaze seemed to wander, and he blinked lazily.

"Did I sleep all day?" He asked. "You can go home, get some sleep, I'll be okay."

"Jimmy, it's daytime, it's only been an hour."

The line between his brows deepened. "Day? But it's pretty dark." His eyes swiveled, looked up and down. "Christie, get the doctor."

Surprisingly, the doctor was happy with his condition. He had lost no feeling in any limbs and could move everything. Apparently this was ahead of schedule. His mind was clear; he remembered the robbery, being shot, even some of the ride back n the ambulance. His hearing was 100 and his speech, although muffled by the tube in his mouth, was better than expected. When Jim asked about his vision, the doctor's answer didn't do anything to soothe him.

"Detective, you've got to expect some damage. You've been shot in the head; shock waves from the bullet have traveled through your brain causing hemorrhaging and neural damage. You are extremely lucky you can move all your limbs, hear, and converse."

"But…" Jim had no answer. He was relieved he could move. That first moment of waking, thinking he was paralyzed, was a horror that could have been a reality. "But…"

The doctor's voice was firm. "We've removed bullet and bone fragments from around your left eye and behind it in the brain, in direct line with the optic chiasma. The swelling alone, which will go down in time, could cause the symptoms you're describing."

But Jim wasn't satisfied. "How soon, how soon should it clear up?"

The doctor patted his hand. "I can't tell. But I do have another doctor coming in to consult; she's had some more experience with this type of injury. I'll make sure you get to talk to her."

Jim waited, dozing and waking, listening to people as they hurried past or chatted in the corners. The doctor questioned him. "Tell me what you see, Detective."

"It's dark, the lights look like they're burned out. I can see you but you're a just a shape." Jim moved his eyes to the left, he reached with his hand, "Here, I can see the edge of the frame, I think. It's clearer than the rest."

The doctor checked for color perception, movement, depth and distance. He held up some objects and had Jim identify them. He got some but it was so dark and blurry he became frustrated and angry. He reached out and grabbed the doctor's hand as he waived a child's toy dog above Jim's head. "Enough!"

The doctor pushed against his hand. "Good strength. Okay, I'm not seeing any agnosia." He made notes on Jim's chart. "This is a very good sign. Your type of acquired brain injury sometimes brings with it an inability to recognize objects, or prospagnosia, the inability to recognize faces. I see no evidence of that."

Jim quieted, unable to recognize objects? Unable to recognize faces? These things could happen?

The doctor's face appeared above him again. "I'm going to use the light. Close your eyes and I'll open them with my finger."

But as the doctor clicked the light on to Jim's right eye the pupil shrunk to a pin point, Jim gasped in pain and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. A micro second later, when the pupils sluggishly opened again, Jim was unconscious.

When Jim woke next, the ceiling was gone, the exit sign was gone; in their place, a darkened wall, part of a chair, and lots of black smudges.

"Hello?" The word came out cleanly; the tube was gone. A moment of celebration, he was happy to give up an exit sign for the real estate of his own mouth. Jim felt quite calm, the panic of earlier had subsided, replaced by an almost bubbly sensation. He wondered what drugs they had him on now.

"Mr. Dunbar. I'm Julie, your nurse this morning, how are you feeling?"

"Thirsty."

"Good. Let's get you a drink of water."

Jim blinked, trying to clear his vision as the nurse took the chair in front of him and he felt a straw hit his lips. He sucked greedily.

"Not too fast, we can't have you coughing." She pulled it back.

Belatedly, Jim processed the nurse's greeting. "Morning?" Jim asked. It seemed as dark as night, as he blinked. Everything he was seeing came only from his left eye. He blinked repeatedly but couldn't tell if his right eye was even open.

"My eye, I can't…" The words wouldn't come easily. The nurse moved closer in front of him but he couldn't make out her features, only a vague shape, as if it were a very dark night with no illumination at all.

"Mr. Dunbar, can you see me?" the nurse asked.

"Your shape, but it's dark, murky."

She raised her hand and placed it on his left eye. "And now?"

Jim looked; he searched up, across, nothing. "No."

"Now?" she changed her hand to the right eye.

"Yes. But not much."

"Okay, you stay there, I'll get the doctor."

While she was away Jim worked hard, trying to focus on the chair, the wall, he wished there were more. At least the ceiling had had lights on it.

It seemed a long, long, time before the doctor came. Finally Jim felt a hand on his shoulder and then the chair was filled with a bigger blur. "So, Detective, how are you today?"

Jim waved his right hand over his head. The frame prevented him touching his face. "My right eye, I can't see anything."

"Alright, I'm going to use the pen light again."

"Okay." Jim steeled himself for the blinding pain he had felt before."

"Let's look at your left to start with. Tell me when you see the light."

Jim waited, hands clenched, ready to fight the pain. A small light appeared after a moment, unaccompanied by discomfort. "Now." Then it went. "Now." He said when it appeared again further to the right.

"Very good. And color, what color can you see now?" The doctor appeared to sit back.

"Ah, white, some dark, it's really very murky, can you put the lights up?"

"Yes, we can do that." The doctor got up and went away. When he returned Jim heard a clicking sound and the doctor came into view, Jim could make out his head and white coat. "Red, you're wearing a red shirt?"

"Yes, that's good."

"Dark hair, I think the wall behind you is beige."

The doctor turned. "Yes, it is. That's good. And how much focus?"

Jim, squinted, with the strong light directly on the doctor's face he could make out his expression; concern, worry and now plastering a fake smile on. "I can see you're worried." The doctor nodded, making eye contact but then pulling away just as quickly as if he had secrets he didn't want Jim to see in his eyes. "This is better than before? When we had you on your back?"

"The vision in my left eye seems better but I had some in my right before. Will that improve too?"

"Alright, you're wife's here. Why don't you spend some time with her? I'll be back in about an hour." The doctor patted his shoulder again and left.

The doctor had ignored his question. Somewhere in his mind an alarm bell went off but it was muted, easily ignored.

"Sit here, Mrs. Dunbar."

"When is he going to be out of that thing?" Christie was asking.

"The doctor says probably tomorrow, Mrs. Dunbar. Things should have stabilized by then."

Stabilized? Did that mean he would be able to see again by tomorrow or as it sounded that it would stabilize at the other end, leaving him as he was now, blind in one eye and struggling to focus the other? The euphoria of earlier began to shift, the drugs must be wearing off.

"Christie?" he needed to see her now, he hungered for a look at her, "Please, honey, sit, I've missed you." He tried to inject some light into his voice but to his own ears he sounded desperate.

She sat in the chair, crossed her legs at the knee and leaned over until he could see her. "Morning Jim."

He concentrated hard, holding the focus with some strain. He found it very strange, he'd never needed corrected vision, always had twenty/twenty. She smiled but the tiredness showed in her eyes. "That horrible thing is coming off tomorrow," she said brightly. "I'm so glad; it would have been a real turn off in bed." She grinned at her joke. Jim tried to smile but the effort of holding her face in focus was taking everything he had. She chatted for a few more minutes, then her phone went off and she made some excuse to leave.

His head pounded and the nurse gave him the allowed dosage of painkillers. Jim fell asleep waiting for the doctor.

Christie sat with the two doctors in a small, cramped office. They explained the choices, the problems and the odds. Dr. Gilroy argued for keeping Jim on his side. His vision seemed to be improving now that he had been turned and although there had been some minor indications of personality shift, questioning hadn't shown any loss of memory or cognitive skills.

"Yet." Dr. Schaefer had argued and pressed Christie to agree to turning him onto his back again. Christie felt like a cat watching a tennis game on TV, hopelessly pulled from one side to another but with the true significance of their words beyond her. No one should have to make decisions like this.

"This is not a choice I can make for Jim. He'd want to make it himself."

The doctors tried to talk her out of it, this was a serious decision to make. Jim may not be able to understand the implications, the consequences. But Christie knew that either way, no matter what he lost or regained, Jimmy would never forgive her for making the choice for him.

"Mr. Dunbar." It was the doctor's voice.

Jim fought the tides of sleep and nausea. "I'm here, I'm awake."

"Good. I've been discussing your case with Dr. Schaefer and we have talked it over with your wife but there's a decision to be made and we'd like to involve you in it."

"Okay." Jim waited. That was unusual wasn't it? Doctors including a patient in their decision making.

"At the moment, you are lying on your left side, the side where the bullet entered your cranium. We've turned you to that side to take the pressure off the optic nerve and visual cortex, at the back of your brain."

"Okay, the pressure, that's what's messing up my eyes?"

"Yes. Yes it is. The problem is, since we have done that you're periods of consciousness have decreased and I'm concerned that you could lose cognitive functions."

"What?"

A second voice chimed in, a woman's voice. "I'm Dr. Schaefer, Detective, I'm concerned you could lose memory and analytical skills if we don't relieve the pressure. I want to turn you onto your back."

"But if we do that," Dr. Gilroy continued, "you'll more than likely lose all your sight. We won't be able to relieve the pressure on the optic nerve, where it converges near the centre of the brain. And you may never regain it. Whereas, if we keep you in this position, as you heal, there is a good chance you might retain the vision you have in your left eye."

"Why can't I sit up?"

"No, you also cracked your neck, bruised your spinal cord; that's why the spinal anesthesia was needed. You need to remain horizontal until the swelling at the top of your spinal column goes down. Any messing with that and you'd risk quadriplegia."

"And if I stay horizontal?"

"Should be no complications. This a fairly well known injury, we are very experienced in dealing with it successfully."

"Okay, no sitting up." Jim almost laughed. "But I have to choose; lose my mind or my sight?"

"Not your mind, Detective," Dr. Gilroy said. "Possibly some analytical functions, maybe none."

"Dr, Schaefer?"

"Yes, Detective."

"Describe 'lose my memory' please."

The doctor listed possible losses. Memory of people, memory of skills, driving, reading. The list went on. "Anywhere from complete amnesia to just finding it hard to recall current information."

"Like Alzheimers?"

"Possibly, although I must stress, we have no way of knowing what you will lose, indeed, you may not lose anything."

"And loss of analytical skills?"

"Most under threat are those skills that tend to reside in the left part of the brain; judgment, accurate assessment, detailed communication, planning, logic, mathematics, deduction, reading, writing."

"Stop." Jim's voice sounded harsh even to his own ears.

"I'm sorry, Detective."

"And you've noticed some of this happening, already?"

"Yes."

"Christie?"

"I'm here."

"I need to be alone with my wife. Please."

Really it was a choice between two episodes of punishments from hell; his sight or his analytical ability; with the uncertainty thrown in that there was a small chance of no permanent damage done at all. They could be throwing away what sight he had now for no reason and they would never know.

Dr. Gilroy was pretty certain if Jim remained as he was, on his side, for the next two weeks he would probably retain what sight he had now, perhaps even regain some as it had improved since they moved him off his back. He argued that cognitive loss was not yet apparent and may never eventuate.

Dr. Schaefer had been in trauma neurology for two decades. She could not deny he may have no loss of cognitive capability by remaining where he was but in her opinion the chances were slim. If he did lose cognitive capability it could be as severe to reduce his mind to that of a three year old child, rob him of his ability to speak or even to remember anything. His personality and memory had already shown changes, he had joked earlier with the nurse, had made some strange comments to the doctors and asked Christie out on a date. His periods of consciousness had seriously shortened since being turned. All these were indications of right brain activity dropping. If he was turned onto his back, he changed the odds from 90 percent likelihood of cognitive loss to only 10 percent likelihood. But, on his back, she expected he would never regain the lost vision and would probably lose what he had.

A specialist talked to them about the functional difference between some sight in his left eye and no sight at all; a world of difference.

Christie was surprised that Jim could discuss this so reasonably, without apparently feeling the terrible weight of the decision. Dr. Schaefer put her hand on Christie's and explained, many people who had severe strokes in the right hemisphere of the brain were particularly happy. Chances were, if he stayed where he was and lost cognitive function, he would probably be quite happy. Jim smiled as she explained.

They both felt the same. If he lost his ability to think, he wouldn't be Jimmy anymore. So, in the end there was no choice. They didn't talk about who he would be if he lost his sight. Lying in a hospital, where the only loss was of a few ceiling lights and an exit sign, they had no idea of the impact it could have.

As they turned him, the white light returned and Jim slipped into unconsciousness. When he woke, he could even see a little more. Christie was so beautiful, even with the dark smudges of sleepless nights under her eyes. He reached up and watched as his hand moved over her smooth cheek and brushed her hair back. Over the next several hours Jim tried hard to stay awake, as if by doing so he might hold onto the vision that remained in his left eye. Christie sat with him, standing up so he could see her face. They kept the lights on high. But sometimes she had to sit, and eventually she dozed, her head on his hand. He almost welcomed the quiet while he resisted the encroaching darkness.

The morning sun poked through the window and roused her. Disoriented, she went to rise, to see Jimmy's face, to be seen but he held her hand tight. "No, stay there, it's okay. There's no need to stand, Honey." Her tears bathed his hand.


End file.
